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A Poem: Revision 

He mapped a career in medicine,
focused on the eye, an organ of wondrous
complexity, demanding extended years of study.

He built a crowded practice, french cuffs and
a tie beneath his starch-white lab coat,
schedule tethered to the ticking clock:

A daily routine of laser treatments, tweezering chips
of splinters or paint from under sedated eyelids,
scrubs and latex gloves for intra-ocular surgery.

But, one morning, after breakfast—no school, thanks to
a tree-stumper storm—while he’s criss-crossing
his tie, his two boys clamber-bamber up his back,

Wrestle him to the ground, pile on top—
a wiggling six-legged griffin—thumping, pummeling,
growling its glee—Come on, guys, not on the floor.

In his car, later, as the motor hums, he stares
at the rearview mirror—caught not by the driveway—
but by the vision of his boys as they mussed his hair.

En route, the trees lift up their branches—
he waves back at them—sings and tingles
his way to the office—way behind schedule.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Tony Howarth.


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